


ashes to ashes

by gael_itarille



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Dragons, Elves, Family Angst, Father-Son Relationship, Friendship, Mirkwood, Other, Pain, Pre-War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-25 00:18:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20023405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gael_itarille/pseuds/gael_itarille
Summary: "Legolas had long thought he was above lament; past the point of sobbing in face of misfortune. He is not."





	ashes to ashes

**Author's Note:**

> A fic inspired by images I found online (all credit for the images goes to the artists- Fëanor and the-evil-legacy ). Both images are shown before the ending notes. This fic is set in Greenwood's infirmary, sometime in the Third Age. 
> 
> Enjoy! xx

He has slain the serpent, that is true. He has saved his kingdom, saved his _son_ from mortal peril- but it is an almost-pyrrhic victory.

It burns. It burns from the tips of his hair to the ends of his toes, and Thranduil feels as if he is being ignited from the inside. The malice of the dragon lingers- rushing into his veins like acid. His armour seems to cling to every wound, deepening gashes and tearing already-charred skin. Every step of the elves who rush him towards the ironically pristine doors of Greenwood's infirmary sends jolts of white through the Elvenking's vision, and even the forest's strongest warrior cannot think of anything but the red.

Galion desires nothing more than to sprint through the halls of _Eryn Galen_ , torch in one palm and the hand of his prince in the other. His knuckles are deathly white. There are respected healers and swift messengers running to-and-fro, but the butler thinks nothing of curtesy; he is ready to shove aside all who block the path to his liege, and he senses anger slam into his heart. Anger- towards his king who refused his company in battle, towards himself who should have been there- not to serve, but to _aid._ Fear is just slightly slower, crashing into his conscience with shouts of worry and a need to check on his ruler. _No_ \- his friend. Nevertheless, he keeps his grasp on Legolas firm and as comforting as he can manage, trying desperately to ignore the drops of crimson on the floor that mix with tears of one who is too young to see such gore and such injury. Although the crying, the moaning, the chasing and the _bleeding_ threaten to turn his home into chaos, it is nothing compared to the discord that muddles his mind. Galion nearly wants to flee, to pick the elfling beside him up with both arms and escape into a room where they can wait and solace can be sought in a rare quiet. But he must carry on. The torch- despite its luminescence in the indigo of night- is barely more than a hindrance, illuminating the walls and the floor just enough to for Greenwood's loyal attendant to resist flinging it away to rush towards the blood-stained stretcher in front of him. With what he tries in vain to make a steadying breath, Galion moves forward slightly faster. Tears are much closer than he should like.

Legolas had long thought he was above lament; past the point of sobbing in face of misfortune. He is not.

The prince feels like the youngest of elflings once more, hands shaking and lip trembling with wasted effort to keep the tears at bay. His vision is glassy, fragmented, invaded by tears, and if not for Galion tethering him to the path, his legs would have given way to the floor beneath. Each stone is warped, swirling and dipping with the weight of his panic. For the first time in years, Legolas is _terrified_. Without his father, he is lost- drifting in a cold sea, struggling to keep his head over water. His breaths are not steady; acute with hurried inhales and exhales cut far too short. He longs for his ada- longs for an embrace and a kiss on the forehead- longs to do _something_ to help the ellon who has always protected him. He wants to take the pain away with tender kisses and gentle smiles, as his king has done for all his son's life. Although the young one cannot see his only parent, he can hear him; can hear the sharp intake of breath; the moans that turn increasingly louder as footsteps become more hurried. They become louder- louder still, and Greenleaf wishes to run- to bury himself into robes that smell of _anything_ but blood. The stench of the substance encapsulates all- Legolas smells home in the air no longer. It reeks- more than any oozing, foul creature that has ever passed these corridors. At least his father does not scream. Legolas would unravel like thread if-

His father _screamed_.

The doors are approaching quicker now- bathing Thranduil in the heavenly glow of healing and elven magic. It brings him no relief. The pain surges, taunting him in the face of his kingdom's halo of tranquillity and ease. His cries of pain become full-fledged just as the entrance to the infirmary spreads. The Elvenking prays to the Valar that Legolas cannot hear him. 

Elrond turns immediately at the sound of anguish, robes knocking over vials and scrolls in his haste- all elven grace forgotten. Rivendell's lord has all but the sense to utter commands, with Lindir directing elves out of the room swiftly in his stead- ever the faithful steward. Imladris' attendant lingers, but his companion has hardly the mind to appreciate it now. Almost on instinct, the powerful elf beings to chant, murmuring words of alleviation and applying salves and herbs. Though an experienced healer, he wishes not to witness his old ally like this- flesh marred and eye clouded over, howls of pain invading his ears. The sound ricochets off his bones, pounding into his mind with reminders of a gruesome battle and frantic pleas to Illùvatar for strength. He cannot hear himself- not even the keenest of ears could detect more than screaming of a father and the weeping of a child. The _child_. What is to become of the devasted elf on the other side of these walls? Only halfway to maturity, little Legolas is but a leaf-shoved along by a tragic wind. There is naught he can do to comfort the elfling now- and not for the first time, it occurs to him that even he cannot reverse every wound. Lord Elrond attempts to tell himself that he had chosen this; selected an immortal life of heightened senses and healing. The gift of hearing is nothing more than a hindrance now. Elrond wishes to have chosen the life of man- so at least he could have been defeaned by the screams.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please, let me know what you thought in the comments!


End file.
